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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27251404">metamorphosis</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilsgarden/pseuds/thedevilsgarden'>thedevilsgarden</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Game of Thrones (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/F</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-07 00:21:17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Rape/Non-Con</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,535</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27251404</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilsgarden/pseuds/thedevilsgarden</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Margaery is smuggled out before the trial; she and her grandmother ride North.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sansa Stark/Margaery Tyrell</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>112</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>metamorphosis</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The news from King’s Landing arrives by raven in the pale, milky hours of morning. A young page retrieves the message and takes off running through the snowy courtyard, tripping over his boots in his haste to deliver it. </p><p>	“A message for the queen!”</p><p>	Sansa’s chief advisor is quick to snatch the missive from his grasp. Without a word to the boy, he marches into Sansa’s war chamber and delivers it to her directly. </p><p>	“A message, Your Grace. From the south.”</p><p>	“From my brother?” Sansa straightens. “From Dragonstone?”</p><p>	Sansa eagerly accepts the scroll, but the urgency fades once she examines the seal. It is one of the easiest houses to identify. An imprint of a rose, pressed into golden wax; the sigil of House Tyrell. </p><p>Sansa unfurls the scroll, careful not to break the seal, and reads the short message written therein. She recognizes that handwriting, the neat, old-fashioned curve of the letters. That same script appeared on similar parchment years ago, during her time as a ward of the crown, on a polite invitation to lunch. This time the ink is runny, some of the letters splotched out, but the looping signature is the same.</p><p>Olenna Tyrell.</p><p>Sansa reads the letter twice, then hands it to her nearest advisor. </p><p>“Gentlemen,” she says evenly. “The Queen of Thorns is traveling north with half the Tyrell army.”</p><p>A heavy silence falls over her council, but Sansa reassures them with a placid smile. </p><p>“Olenna Tyrell has proposed an alliance against the throne.”</p><p>“Your Grace,” her chief advisor steps forward, clearing his throat. “How many men can we expect?”</p><p>“Ten thousand,” she says. “And enough food to feed our men for a year.”</p><p>                                                                                                                                            * * *       *       *</p><p>Olenna Tyrell and her bannermen march through the gates of Winterfell with very little ceremony. It is a feeble show of force, despite their numbers; the soldiers are pale, half-starving, shivering violently in their sparse green uniforms. Winter is coming on strong, and these men are dressed for the southern isles. </p><p>	A winded footman rushes to open the door of an ornate carriage, as one of the bannermen steps forward to announce their arrival. Sansa watches the footman fumble with the door; he is shaking badly, and his quivering mouth is tinged purple. The cold seeps in through the extremities, before it ever reaches the body, and Sansa wonders how many of these men have been marching through the snow on frostbitten feet.</p><p>There is a muffled sound of irritation as Olenna Tyrell steps down from the carriage, ignoring the footman’s proffered hand. She sniffs as she scans the sea of Northern faces with marked disinterest, squinting against the frigid air and downy flakes that land heavily on the frozen grass. And though Olenna has aged in the years since Joffrey’s death, it is Sansa who feels impossibly old. </p><p>Vacantly, she thinks of Ser Loras, of the sweet, surreal promise of Highgarden. But that dream seems far away now, and Loras is nothing but ash on the streets of the Red Keep. </p><p>Sansa steps forward, flanked by two guards, and manages a tight smile. </p><p>“Lady Olenna.”</p><p>	“Sansa Stark, Queen in the North.” Olenna’s lips twitch upward, the faint suggestion of a smile. “It would seem I underestimated you.” </p><p>	“You’re not the first,” Sansa says. “And my brother rules in the North.”</p><p>	Olenna holds her gaze for a moment, half-amused, then releases an exaggerated sigh. </p><p>	“Well?” The old woman looks around in mild irritation. “Are we all just going to stand here and freeze to death, or is someone going to invite us in?”</p><p>	Sansa is about to step forward and speak, when a second figure emerges from the carriage. She is a few years older than Sansa remembers, but still every bit a rose. And her smile, a bit wary, a bit unsure, is just as disarming.</p><p>	“Oh yes, did I forget to mention?” Olenna waves a hand flippantly. “My granddaughter will be joining us.”</p><p>	The crowd that has gathered to witness the arrival of the Tyrell army erupts in whispers.</p><p>	“Please,” Sansa says, burying her surprise. “Come inside.”</p><p>                                                                                                                                            * * *       *       *</p><p>Sansa ensures that all of the Tyrell soldiers are fed hot meals, bathed, and warmed by the fire. By the time she has checked on the last regiment of the soldiers, some of the color has started to return to their cheeks. They thank her, many times, for the stew and the hard chunks of bread. But Sansa knows that Tyrell soldiers don’t often weather harsh conditions, and that Winterfell’s northern food will likely disagree with them. </p><p>	When she finally joins Olenna in the quiet comfort of her reading room, she focuses on the pressing issues at hand.</p><p>	“Send two of your cooks to the kitchens tomorrow morning.”</p><p>	Olenna considers the order. “Are you in need of better cooks?”</p><p>	“Your men are not used to northern food. They have weak stomachs.”</p><p>	Olenna waves a dismissive hand.</p><p>	“They’ll manage.”</p><p>	“They won’t,” Sansa insists. “You will send your cooks to the kitchens, with the supplies you’ve brought from the south. And they will prepare southron meals for your soldiers.”</p><p>	Olenna’s lips quirk upward. “Very well.”</p><p>	Margaery watches the exchange with a smile. Much like the withered soldiers, she has also regained some color. She is lovely, but there is a weight in her gaze that wasn’t there the last time they saw each other. Losing one’s entire family will do that; Sansa knows better than most.</p><p>	She turns to Olenna. “How did you know?”</p><p>	“Know what, child?”</p><p>	“Cersei’s plan,” Sansa says. “The wildfire beneath the Sept of Baelor. How did you know?”</p><p>	Olenna leans back in her chair, her expression darkening. “I didn’t. You think I would have left my son and grandson to die?”</p><p>	Sansa bows her head slightly, an unspoken apology. “Then why did you leave the capitol?”</p><p>	“To save my granddaughter from that vile fanatic. To bring her back to Highgarden.”</p><p>	Margaery’s right hand unconsciously falls to her stomach; Sansa catches the movement in her periphery. It could be a nervous gesture, a meaningless thing, but somehow she knows better.</p><p>	“You’re with child.”</p><p>	Margaery blinks at her, looks to her grandmother for guidance. “I-”</p><p>	“That child is a Lannister,” Sansa says, her temper flaring. “Why should I protect you? Tell me why I shouldn’t kill him the moment he’s born.”</p><p>	“You wouldn’t hurt a child,” Margaery says.</p><p>	Sansa bristles. “You have no idea what I would or wouldn’t do.”</p><p>	“You’ve changed,” Margaery allows. “But I remember the way you spoke about your little brothers. They were so small, and you were heartbroken when you thought they’d been killed. Just for being Starks.” </p><p>	“Oh? And what insight did that provide you?”</p><p>“That you would never hurt a little boy. Or a little girl.” Margaery’s expression goes soft. “That’s why we came north. That’s why it had to be you.”</p><p>Margaery smiles at her too kindly, and Sansa quickly looks away. She refocuses on Olenna.</p><p>“And Danaerys? You could have allied your house with her cause.”</p><p>	Olenna scoffs at that. “Half the Targaryens went mad. And a Lannister child, a Baratheon boy, would threaten her claim to the throne.”</p><p>	“You really think she’d hurt a child because of its name?” </p><p>	“She has burned men alive for less.”</p><p>	Sansa considers that, stares into the fire and imagines those dragons annihilating whole cities in seconds. “Jon is arranging an alliance at Dragonstone. Once Danaerys travels north, I won’t be able to protect you.”</p><p>	“You are the true heir of Winterfell,” Olenna insists. “Without your support, the North will never fight by her side. When the dragon queen asks you to bend the knee, you will have the opportunity to make demands.” </p><p>	 “She has three dragons,” Sansa says. “I doubt there will be much room for negotiation.” </p><p>	“Danaerys is a strategist.” The old woman gestures to one of the Tyrell servants to refill her wine glass. “And if she has any sense about her, she understands the importance of strong alliances. The North looks to the Starks for leadership, to the wolves; they will never bow to a dragon. She would be foolish to insult you, to strip you of your title.”</p><p>	Margaery leans forward and reaches for Sansa’s hand. “This child is the future of Highgarden. The last Tyrell.”</p><p>	Sansa frowns. “The last?”</p><p>	“Three husbands, all dead,” Olenna says tartly. “I doubt any lord will be eager to form a union with a thrice widowed queen. ”</p><p>	Margaery manages a tired smile. “Grandmother is right.”</p><p>	“But why leave Highgarden?”</p><p>	Olenna leans back in her chair, takes a slow sip from her glass of wine. “This war could last weeks, or years. Highgarden is within Cersei’s grasp, and I won’t risk the life of my granddaughter.”</p><p>Sansa understands that, at least.</p><p>“So.” Olenna studies her for a moment. “Will you help us, child?”</p><p>	“I once accepted your help,” Sansa says, her gaze fixed on Margaery; the betrayal feels oddly fresh. “Your offer of marriage to Loras. You were so lovely; you promised you would take me to Highgarden. Far away from the people who killed my parents. And then you fed me to the lions.”</p><p>“Sansa-”</p><p>	“Golden smiles, and ruthless strategy,” she says, shifting her attention to Olenna. “I once confused strategy with kindness. I won’t make that mistake again.”</p><p>	If Olenna is at all repentant, it doesn’t show, but Margaery has the decency to look ashamed.</p><p>	“I will accept your offer of food and men,” Sansa tells them. “And in return I offer you both sanctuary for as long as House Stark is able to provide it. And after the war is won, we will offer you safe passage back to the Reach.”</p><p>	“Thank you,” Margaery says earnestly. “I really-”</p><p>	“You must be tired from your journey,” Sansa says, rising gracefully to her feet. “I’ll let you both rest.”</p><p>	She can feel Margaery’s eyes on her as she crosses the room, and tries to ignore the burning sensation that seems to spread outward from her chest.</p><p>                                                                                                                                            * * *       *       *</p><p>The first few weeks go by in a frantic blur. Sansa oversees the production of armor and weapons, the training of soldiers, and the preparation of southron food. She writes to Dragonstone, calculates how long her men can last on the Tyrell provisions, requests extra grain and supplies from allies in the North in anticipation of a long and brutal winter.</p><p>	She only sees Margaery in passing, at meals or in the courtyard, and Olenna sequesters herself in her chambers, only emerging for dinner or to visit Lady Margaery. Jon has written one other letter, but it does not contain much substance. He does mention the successful mining and collection of the dragon glass; he also shares a vague description of the Dragon Queen.</p><p>	Petyr Baelish seems to be a permanent fixture at her side, these days. Always whispering in her ear, planting ideas, seeds that will grow and blossom the more she thinks of them. He is useful, and in some ways, he is wise, but Sansa knows that she would be a fool to trust him. </p><p>	Sansa excuses herself from Lord Baelish to spend some time in her private quarters; at least, that’s what she tell him. Instead she takes a walk through the Godswood, never wandering too far from the castle grounds. But when she reaches her destination, she finds Margaery kneeling in the snow. She is sitting close to the heart tree, a weirwood with blood red leaves and white bark, sticky with sap. Before she can turn and retrace her steps back to the castle, Margaery glances over at her and smiles.  </p><p>	“Lady Margaery.” Sansa approaches her with even steps. “What brings you to the Godswood?”</p><p>	Margaery smiles to herself, a secret sort of smile. “You did.”</p><p>	“Sorry?”</p><p>	“Years ago, in King’s Landing.” Margaery stares up at the fiery leaves. “You described a tree just like this. And you told me if I ever came to visit you at Winterfell-”</p><p>	“I would show you the heart tree,” Sansa finishes. “I remember.”</p><p> 	Margaery smiles when Sansa sinks to her knees beside her. </p><p>“You’ve been quite busy,” Margaery says. “I thought I’d search for it myself.”</p><p>	Sansa closes her eyes, tries to remember what it was like to kneel here, next to her father, her mother, the brothers she’ll never see again. When she opens her eyes, Margaery is wiping discreetly at her cheeks. Faintly, Sansa wonders if she’s ever seen Margaery cry before. Wonders if it’s real, or a ploy.</p><p>	“I was sorry to hear about Ser Loras,” Sansa says. “And your father.”</p><p>	Margaery doesn’t look at her, just stares at the tree, at the face carved into the bark. But when she speaks, her gaze is far away. </p><p>	“I visited him in his cell before the trial.” she says. “I wanted him to fight harder. I wanted him to live. But I could see he’d given up; he was just a shell of himself. I suppose most of him died with Renly, and the rest…” </p><p>Margaery’s jaw tenses. “He was dead long before Cersei killed him.”</p><p>Sansa bows her head, and thinks fleetingly of the handsome Ser Loras, riding proudly on his horse at the jousting tournament, his spirits high as he offered Sansa a single rose. There was a golden energy that followed him (and his sister), that seemed to seep from his pores. Sansa struggles to picture him trapped in a dark cell, waiting for judgment, shackled to heavy chains.</p><p>And not only trapped, but broken. Margaery said he was a shell of himself; Sansa will admit, she often feels like a shell, too. It’s as though all of the joy and sadness and heart, every precious part of her that bloomed in her youth, has been scraped out by cruel, manipulative people, and tossed away. Sansa wonders, if all of that was stolen from her, what exactly is left behind?</p><p>She reaches over to hold Margaery’s gloved hand. Margaery takes that as an invitation to shift closer to her, resting her head on Sansa’s shoulder. Margaery thrums with the same energy as her brother used to, though it’s dulled now; she hasn’t been broken, just chipped. She hasn’t lost the best parts of herself, and Sansa envies her.  </p><p>“I promise you,” she says. “The Lannisters will pay for what they’ve done.”</p><p>Margaery cuddles closer to her, shivers against the cold. “A thousand dead Lannisters won’t bring back my brother." </p><p>“No,” Sansa says, thinking of Robb’s smile, of Rickon’s full, appled cheeks. “Nor mine.”</p><p>	“Sansa?”</p><p>	“Yes?”</p><p>	Margaery pulls away to look at her. Up close she is even more striking, and Sansa spies flecks of gold and green in the blue of her eyes. Margaery smiles, a bit lopsided, and leans in to press a gentle kiss to Sansa’s cheek; she lingers afterwards, her breath warm and sweet against Sansa’s skin, before she leans back on her heels. </p><p>"Thank you for helping us," she says.</p><p>Sansa flushes, still feels the faint press of cold lips against her cheek, and Margaery grins victoriously.</p><p>"There you are," she says, and her smile is softer now. "There's the girl I remember. I wasn't sure she was still in there."</p><p>Sansa nods, finds herself revealing an unexpected truth.</p><p>"Neither was I.”</p>
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